


Obsidian

by 09432



Category: For Honor (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 06:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14587203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/09432/pseuds/09432
Summary: "It's never too late, Apollyon."She laughs, something cold and bone-chilling and broken."I'm afraid, Ashfeld, I met you fifty-four years too late."The Warden's ties to Apollyon run deeper than she cares to admit.





	Obsidian

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at an earlier date before I chickened out and took it down. Putting this back up again as I'm coming back around to it.

_Thanks to B. and N. You know who you are._

 

**00.**

The first thing the Warden notices, when she joins Blackstone, is that Apollyon is an intensely private person. Her tent is far removed from the rest of the Legion’s, and any meetings she has are never held in her own quarters. Rumors, of course, spread amongst the men that no one had, indeed, seen the inside of their Lord’s tent, and save Holden Cross, no one dared try. Some of the older infantrymen, when the Warden sits and talks with them over cold winds and open fires, inform her fewer still, even, have seen her face.

“Our Wardlord’s an ugly fucker,” one tells her as he takes a swig from the leather bladder at his hip one day, and she shoots him a sharp look. “Don’t mean no offense by it, but the old bird’s clearly seen better days. She’s pretty much blind on her left side, ya’ know? I saw it, once. Some cocker got her helmet off in a fight before taking a swing. Got a wound gouged deep enough in her eye the whole thing’s hazed over. Fuck, was she pissed. Never seen anyone take a beating like that and still come out on top. Poor bloke got his head lopped clean off.”

The Warden doesn’t doubt it. Apollyon is older than almost any person she’s ever met, and by all rights, should be dead—or infirm and feeble, unable to simply  _walk_ on the battlefield. But Apollyon is neither—goes to war like she is a seasoned soldier with the strength of the youngest and most eager under her command. The Warden has seen it up close and personal–has felt just how much  _strength_ lies underneath chainmail and Lawbringer armor while hauled to her feet—has seen her take down seven men with the strength of a  _bull_.

These are inhuman feats, but the Warden does not doubt that the warlord is anything  _but_. She would not admire a  _demon_. Her oath forbids it. Few believe her. Blackstone’s men see their leader as something sprung from the old Gods of the Centurions—like Minerva, birthed from the head of Jupiter himself, or greater still—forged in the belly of the earth and spat back out during the time of the Great Disaster, rising from the lava like some great Titan.

But despite these stories—of how many infantrymen believed in legend and  _myth_ —Apollyon does not recruit those that lack  _intelligence_ , and Blackstone’s soldiers are not  _stupid_. It’s a Conqueror who picks up on it first—asks the question upon everyone’s tongue because the  _lawless_ would have seen it all.

“Why so curious, Warden? Looks you’ve been giving the commander make me think you’d fancy a roll in the hay.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively and she hears Stone snort next to her before elbowing the other conqueror hard in the ribs.

It is not a surprise the men under her laugh about it—whisper jokes and bawdy humor as men would. It is common knowledge the Warden would sooner have eyes for the closest  _tavern girl_ than she would for one the many men she fought beside. But the jibe hits too close to home, and for once, she is grateful for the helmet she wears so the soldiers around the fire cannot see how the tips of her ears grow scarlet—that she bites the inside of her cheek from the  _humiliation_ hard enough it leaves the skin ragged the next day.

“I’ve got a duty to uphold.” It’s indignant—pinned down with surety. “I wouldn’t dishonor my post by lying with my lord. I’d be skinned alive if I were found out.”

No truer words, when spoken—sweet in her mouth, but bitter in the fact that what she wanted and what she knew was  _right_ remained at war with each other. It’s a dream, she thinks—one filled with dark promise and perhaps a thrilling encounter or two to lull her to a false sense of security at night—but nothing more than that. Merely sordid thoughts to keep her company during lonely nights at war with only her hand for comfort.

The Warden comforts herself with the fact that her fantasy and reality would never collide.

 

**01.**

It’s nearly four months later when the Warden is passed over for a spot in a jousting competition.

The tournament is annual, a gathering of Ashfeld’s legions hosted under Apollyon’s banners and a show of Blackstone might. It is the first time the Warden has fought furiously with her commander—proved her prowess on the battlefield every time Apollyon surveyed the fight—hoping that she would be considered for the honor.  The warlord gives the spot to Holden Cross instead, and the Warden is  _incensed_ —almost uncharacteristically so.  The younger knight, so normally known for her mellow personality and charismatic devotion—is the first to truly raise her voice to her commander.

It is a vicious verbal battle that takes place on Blackstone’s training grounds one morning, when the soldiers are just starting to file in through the dawn’s light mist, pulling heavy sleep from their eyes—the Warden’s voice echoing off the stone towers and reworked masonry. It causes Stone to flinch and Holden Cross to purse his lips into a thin line, waiting for the inevitable fallout and verbal evisceration that is sure to follow in the wake of the Warlord’s words.  But Apollyon does not rise to the challenge, remains a veritable wall amongst the Warden’s onslaught—arms crossed, and head tilted to the side. She listens quietly, as if considering the hotly-charged words all but thrown at her, but her response is razor-sharp with all the force of a cracking bullwhip.

“While we are fortunate to have you, you have fought under our banners for barely more than a single season. The answer is no, Blackstone.”

It is the end to a one-sided argument, but not to what the Warden considers the beginning of an all-out  _brawl_.  She is young and hot-headed—her laurels resting on the romanticized ideals of heroic knights and chivalry—and in her naivety, she feels  _slighted_. It does not take long for her to enter the tourney under a new banner—that of her father—  _Ser Ulric_.  It has been long since she has fought under these colors, and her standards run sand, and gold, and grey; a boar emblazoned on her back. The feeling gives her a sense of  _power_ , and her confidence runs high.

It is expected she performs well, of course—and she does, tournament armor polished to a high shine and wrapped in gold and engravings, dripping in lavish extremes that would otherwise be unfitting of a warden with her moral ethics. But her armor is not simply a rare show of vanity, but of status—that she  _earned_ the right to wear these plates and greaves—and it shows a side of the young knight that is oft carefully suppressed. Cocky. Arrogant. Almost bursting at the seams with ego with each opponent she scores a point against—with each man she topples off his horse. It does not come without the attention of many a lords’ daughter, and she is offered gloves, handkerchiefs, ribbons from long hair—any token that she can tie upon a lance or keep underneath her belt to fight in the name of a beautiful lady. They, of course, do not know that their fictional savior—underneath the armor—owns a body no different than their own, but the Warden lets them fantasize; lets them dote upon her as she revels in the attention. She offers them flowers upon a pompous trot atop her mare, raises her helm to press her lips to the backs of knuckles, leaving so many completely smitten.

Not once does she break eye contact with her warlord.

It’s a childish move, and she knows it—a young knight clearly acting out for attention—but Apollyon remains unimpressed, merely tilting her helm to the side as Holden Cross speaks to her. The Warden sees her shoulders shake in laughter in response to whatever words they share between them.

She figures out the discussion later when Blackstone withdraws from the joust before even setting a single iron-shod hoof in the field and Apollyon crowns her the winner—the master throwing his dog a bone simply to keep it fed. It feels like a bitter, unearned victory that leaves a bad taste in her mouth as her she suits up for the melee, fingers making quick work of the leather straps as she buckles on her vambraces—folds her cape underneath her belt. She feels nothing short of  _cheated_ , and her longsword finds its sheath with a final sound of metal against metal.

 

The melee winds up being a free-for-all—a writhing, violent mass of armor and swords that rings in her ears and makes her taste her heart in throat—iron in her mouth. It is freeing, as she feels the sweat drip into her eyes, sticking the pommel of her sword into another knight’s gut, watching the soldier fall.  It is by the tenth knight she has caught for ransom does she spot her, armor polished to a high shine, the metal rich and black as if it wished to swallow the world around it whole, shoving her hand against a peacekeeper’s face, hearing the poor woman’s nose break. Even in a playful tourney where there is nothing at stake more than money, Apollyon still cuts an imposing, powerful figure across the rapidly dwindling battlegrounds—still leaves her opponents horribly outmatched.

“Well?” There’s a laugh in the woman’s voice, soft and dark, when she turns her head to acknowledge the Warden. “Come.”

The sound that is ripped from the Warden’s mouth can only be likened to a  _howl_.

She swings high, and the clash of metal against metal is so strong she feels it vibrate in her teeth. She has seen her commander in battle once—and only once—a violent, bloody affair that left five men dead and two without heads. Had seen her take a sword to the stomach only to act like the injury was not there. And the Warden knows this is a battle she cannot win because while Apollyon bleeds scarlet like any man, she may as well not bleed at all.

But it does not stop her from trying.

The battle is surprisingly quiet—no words—simply a silent circling of one’s opponent, before a thrust forward and a strike that leads to a light shower of sparks. But where the Warden—ever the traditionalist—stages her fights by the books, Apollyon, she finds, is far more fond of breaking all the rules. The Warden finds her elaborate armor is less than practical—finds the golden tusks atop her helm are grabbed to yank her forward with a knee to the face—or that Apollyon’s sword makes short work of her overly-long plume to slice the edge of her longsword into the Warden’s back. But the most horrifying of all, she thinks, is that Apollyon cares nothing for her own safety, and the younger knight watches with a sick sense of fascination as she lunges forward only to be met with Apollyon’s own hand wrapping around the blade to pull it out of her hand and a foot in her chest.

And she is completely entranced.

She is on the ground in seconds—the irony that the blood dripping upon her armor is not her own is not lost on her.

Her breath is heavy—air burning in her lungs as she pants—watches as Apollyon takes a knee over her (but does not let the pressure off her chest—not yet), stakes her sword in the ground.

“Sloppier, than I expected, but not ineffective. You put some of my greatest to shame, today. Well done, Blackstone.”

It’s praise, and she scrabbles upon it, the resentment easing in her chest slightly, but the Warden is still a knight, and her hands lock upon Apollyon’s ankle, pushing with as much strength as she can muster to give her some advantage to freedom. But it’s futile—the warlord weighs more than her, and she merely presses down upon her cuirass harder, feeling the metal plates creak under the strain (later, she’ll have to knock out the dents).

“Do you yield?”

“Never.”  
  
“Never? I am sure your father will pay your ransom just fine, Blackstone. And then you can continue your little courtly games with Ser Reinfield’s daughter.”

“The matters of the flesh mean little when victory is within sight, M’Lord.”

But Apollyon is more astute than she lets on, and though she cannot see it, already the Warden can imagine the grin twitching at the other’s lips.

“Do they?” There’s amusement there—too much of it—as if the other knight knows something she doesn’t. “And if I extended the invitation, would you still think that way?”

For a second, she hears her heartbeat in her ears—her face flush—and she is suddenly too aware just how close the warlord is kneeling above her, a knee astride her hip, a bloody hand next to her head. She plays the tournaments for the rewards in it—they all did—one day to simply have someone next to you that night and the right afforded to be  _choosy_ about it. The Warden does not lack for options.

_God forgive me, because I do sin._

“Do you yield?”  
  
Her lips are dry when she replies.

“Aye, I yield.”

 

**02.**

Ser Reinfield’s daughter does not take rejection well, and part of the Warden regrets stringing her along throughout the day of the tournament only to turn her away later that night (a red mark adorns the left side of her face as a testament to that). The other part, however, is wound far too tightly in anticipation to give the lady much thought, and as she sits amongst the dozens of feasting knights at long wooden tables in Blackstone’s great hall, she cannot help but occasionally snatch glances of her commander from the side of her eye.

The first thing she notices is that Apollyon does not eat—dares not even remove her armor. It’s a stark contrast to her second, who drinks until his eyes cross and laughs loudly at the table, metal plates discarded for the night. She asks an older warden, next to her, if Apollyon deigns eat with her men at all.

“She eats with the warlords from other legions before the great feast in one of the other rooms in the towers,” he replies, shrugging. “They speak of war and alliances and the state of Ashfeld. Apollyon probably thinks herself too high up to eat with those of lower rank.”

The Warden knows these words are spoken out of spite rather than fact, for despite refusing to break bread with her men, it does not stop Apollyon from weaving throughout the tables, speaking with soldiers, low and highborn alike, congratulating them on their victories or refilling the mead of those that preferred to drown their losses in alcohol. Secretive, perhaps, and maybe not wholly trustworthy—not yet, at least, to the Warden’s eyes—but certainly not lacking in charisma. The warlord knew treating her men  _well_ brought her far more victories than treating them like sword fodder. It was something she wore with pride—hand-selecting the members of her legion herself, ensuring they were the strongest of the lands. And strong weapons needed to be well-taken care of, no matter how gruesome the circumstances of their selection.

The second thing that the Warden notices, however, is that Apollyon acts like the offer of her bed never stood at all. There is no acknowledgement of the Warden, no reassurance that she had not forgotten—in fact, she does not talk to the younger knight at all--and it makes doubt twist in the Warden’s gut, wondering if she was part of some kind of game that her commanders would laugh at later.

The thought makes the Warden purse her lips into a hard line, pushing her food away, suddenly feeling no appetite at all, and she busies herself by talking to Stone next to her, letting him pick scraps off her plate to save in his pockets for later.

“Heard Apollyon knocked you on your ass.” Stone says it with a certain blasé air, rips meat off a boar’s rib like a man who hasn’t eaten in days. Survival instinct from being a captured felon, now seen freedom, she knows—gorging oneself because he didn’t know when his next meal was coming from, even if Blackstone guaranteed food for its soldiers. He jerks his head towards the warlord. “You going to talk to her about it?”

She steadfastly looks in the other direction and sits straighter on the bench—tense. Stone wasn’t stupid. She wonders if he knew far more than he let on.

“We’re scheduled to speak on it, aye.”

“Yeah, well, try to come back in one piece. The legion needs you.”

“I know.”

They remain silent throughout the rest of the feast, unspoken doubts hanging heavy between them, though she can feel Stone’s concern hovering like a thick cloud over her. Stone always had been the more rational of the two—the less impulsive. She doubts he approves of this decision at all—and Blackstone in general.  But that was where the two differed. She was a Warden, and she had her oaths to keep—oaths that brought her towards the greater good and a united land that turned to God for their faith. As a conqueror, Stone would always be more concerned about staying fed and keeping enough coins in his pocket throughout the season. She lives in meager privileges because she chose to. Stone didn’t get that choice. He was born that way.

 

She’s the last to leave when the great hall clears—takes a moment to survey empty goblets and dirtied plates and help the last of the drunken soldiers find their beds and families before heading to the towers, feeling her heart in her chest with each footfall on the stone steps. She counts each shield and emblem Apollyon has mounted upon the walls, seeking some form of distraction; trophies from every legion conquered, knight and Viking alike (and some, further still, from warriors she has only heard about in myth—wonders if Apollyon has truly met them).

The Warden counts one-hundred and fifty separate conquered legions before she arrives at the door—a heavy, wooden affair surprisingly left open, the interior dark save a handful of lit wax candles that casts the room in deep shadows, making her entrance even more intimidating. She knocks on the door—three sharp raps to announce her arrival anyways.

Apollyon doesn’t ask who it is. The Warden, supposes, she already knows.

“Come in, Blackstone.”

There is not much the Warden can see of her commander in such dim light save she is a large figure, even without her armor, but hunched over the writing table, she takes note of deep lines in Apollyon’s face, hands hardened with callouses, fingers that write upon parchment with sharp, precise strokes.

“Orders for tomorrow. The Iron Legion has given us three hundred men for our march on Valkenheim. Our legion is refined enough that we should show graciousness, even if  _they_ are misguided.”

The Warden wets dry lips before she speaks.

“We march on Valkenheim tomorrow, Master?” The prospect of the cold unseats her—and she thinks of frostbitten toes black and rotted off in the snow.

“Indeed. Ashfeld’s population grows each passing year. Eventually, we will need more land as her people find themselves with more mouths to feed.”

“M’Lord, if you—”

Apollyon interrupts her with an amused snort.

“I have not forgotten, Blackstone. Close the door behind you.”

The sound of the wooden latch falling into place as she bolts the door shut had never sounded so final.

 

**03.**

 

Apollyon talks of war plans and the upcoming march as the Warden watches her extinguish flickering flames—the remaining light in the room screaming one last protest before they were plunged into darkness—barely seen furniture reduced to mere outlines and shapes. If the Warden had had any hope of seeing what lay underneath the armor, it lay unaccomplished and dying in the blackness.

The protest is already on the Warden’s mouth as she feels her way over to the shape that might be a bed—smashes her knee into the post:

“Master, I can’t see.”

Apollyon’s laugher is soft, and she feels fingers closing in on the crook of her arm, leading her a handful of steps to her left before she feels furs and down pressing against the back of her legs. Obligingly, she sits on the bed unprompted.

“That would be the point.”

The Warden bites back nervous laughter as she feels the down-stuffed mattress dip underneath the warlord’s weight, staring into the blackness in front of her, painfully aware that she is without armor and chainmail. She feels helplessly exposed without her gambeson, even in the dark, and she licks dry lips, suddenly unsure if she’d made a good decision.

“How long do we expect to march until we reach the border?”  The Warden, of course, knows of Valkenheim—has seen its inhabitants raid Ashfeld yearly—but she does not know what lies to the north of Ashfeld’s boundaries. She has heard of the ice and snow, weather which Ashfeld will never experience—every year her lands heaving up steaming geysers and cracking open to give birth to a new fire pit. The opposite seems unthinkable to her.

“Blackstone will reach Valkenheim in six months, should Ashfeld cooperate with us,” comes the response, but it is met with a thumbnail dragging up the line of her spine, putting pressure on each every individual vertebrae underneath her tunic. The touch reminds her of the sparks that spring forth from the crossing of blades—feels a sliver of heat building underneath her skin.

“Six months is a long march, Master. Will our men be prepared for Valkenheim?”

Fingers trace up the nape of her neck, a thumb swiping along the edge of her jaw line.

“It is up to you to decide how you wish to prepare your cohort. The quartermaster will see to your men’s needs being met. For many, this will not be their first march. I have faith Holden Cross will give you the guidance you need to make this siege a successful one.”

The Warden thinks of her armor and longsword, confiscated for ransom that very morning, and guilt gnaws at her gut.

“My father still owes you ransom.”

She feels more than hears Apollyon’s soft laughter at that—warm, dry puffs at the side of her cheek and nails gentle against her scalp. A flush rises up the sides of her neck, and her fingers curl into the boiled leather plates at the side of Apollyon’s thigh, her heart beating a near painful tattoo against her ribcage.

A thumb traces the seam between her lips, and in a sudden fit of boldness, the Warden presses her lips upon it, feather light and testing before she withdraws, though she digs her fingers in hard enough into her commander’s leathers she can feel the divots forming underneath her nails.

“I believe, Blackstone, you already agreed to pay me handsomely.”

 

Ashfeld grows drier every year. Next to Marrowgate, Blackstone is the closest fortress next to the volcano, Ignis. In the high towers, the heat is stifling, leaving the weather arid and dry enough for the face and hands to crack and bleed without salves and oils to protect the skin. Blackstone is known for keeping her windows and doors open in the castle save for when it cools in the winter and an icy front is brought forward from the northern lands of Valkenheim. But the Warden feels everything is too humid and stuffy in the room as sweat beads on her brow and pools in the hollows of her collarbones, fingers gripping the furs beneath her as she feels a tongue hot on her breast, air burning heavy in her lungs. Each rise and fall of her ribcage is a struggle, her breath a harsh-sounding wheeze, and she grunts between her teeth, shifting in the dark to feel skin on skin.

In her twenty-two years, the Warden has courted many a lord’s daughter—swept them off their feet and into the bedroom—had nails dig into her shoulders as she tasted them upon her tongue while they thrashed in the throes of their passion. Apollyon is the first partner she has felt cowed and uncertain with, the difference in their rank and position and demeanor hanging over them in a way that the Warden wasn’t quite sure she was ready to cross swords with. She is used to soft curves and rich flesh, but when she digs her nails into Apollyon’s arms—crescents deep enough that the Warden is sure they won’t fade until the next day—she only feels hard muscle and corded sinew. The warlord’s skin is a map of raised and knotted scar tissue that the Warden attempts once—and only once—to hastily explore before Apollyon clamps a hand around her wrist, pinning it above the younger knight’s head. A warning, no matter how unspoken, that here, in her room, things would be on the warlord’s terms and no one else’s.

When a knee wedged between her thighs, pressing against her, the Warden sucks in a breath, a low groan on her lips as she feels it grind against her core, her hips moving to rock into solid muscle to gain more friction. It’s not enough, of course—it never would be—and she twists her hand free from the warlord’s grip, drags her nails down the line of her commander’s arm before snaking it between them, and Apollyon is considerate enough to let her, shifting slightly to make room.

With the first touch of her finger upon her clit, the Warden tenses—hisses between clenched teeth—moves in fast desperate motions that don’t match the pace of Apollyon’s tongue on her nipple, but then she feels the warlord shift above her, the proximity of their bodies changing, as lips touch underneath the swell of her breast. Fingers splay over her own, caught in her grip and forcing slow circles over her core, and she feels herself sticky and wet over her hands. Her hips jerk and she can feel the pressure build between her legs, a sharp point under her skin that dances just out of reach; the sound from her throat a broken, hiccuping sob that causes Apollyon to laugh, the vibration echoing off the divot in her stomach.

When she feels lips hot and velvet at her hip and she feels a shudder ripped from the very marrow of her bones, her voice is rough and choked, her free hand releasing the furs soft at her back to dig into the muscle of Apollyon’s shoulder.

“  _Q-quaeso…_ ” Sweat makes the furs itch and stick to the skin of her shoulder blades, a long blonde lock pulled free from her braid clinging to the corner of her lip. “Apollyon...please…”

She can’t see the expression, but the chuckle is rich and dark and pools heavily in her stomach—imagines sharp eyes twinkling in the dark.

“Begging is beneath  _wolves_.”

The first touch of wet heat to her folds makes her cry out—lift her hand to her mouth to bite hard into her wrist at she arches—and she tastes the copper tang of blood and the sharp sting of her skin breaking. The second lick nearly rocks her backwards, leaves her head spinning as her hands find the thick length of Apollyon’s braids and wraps the closest ones around her fists, heels drumming on the bed, digging in to brace herself. She practically hauls herself up into a sitting position with the leverage, curled over and sobbing into the skin of Apollyon’s back as her hips jerk, and she feels them being pushed back into the bed, fingers pushing her pelvis back. Flames lick between her legs, pool molten in her belly and fight their way up her jaw before she feels a hard suck–the faintest scrape of teeth—and she breaks, the muscles in her abdomen tensing as she doubles over, toes curling, pulling hard enough on Apollyon’s hair that she feels the skin over the warlord’s shoulder flinch; the faintest admission of pain.

She stifles her howl in scarred flesh and muscle.

She comes down from it panting and shivering, her lungs heaving with every shaking breath, sweat melding skin to skin before she smoothes her thumbs over Apollyon’s jawline, raising the warlord’s head from between her legs. And while she cannot see the warlord’s face in the dark, the kiss she gives her is desperate and sloppy and  _thankful_. She makes note of every feature hands and lips can interpret; hard lines from age and lips that are scarred and incomplete, a tongue heavy and thick in her mouth and teeth that bite at her lips. She tastes herself and sweat and sex, but beneath that, she tastes iron and smoke and the battlefield.

But moreso, when she pulls back, she tastes Apollyon’s laugher in her mouth.

“I believe you still owe me a forfeit, Blackstone.”

The Warden does not hesitate when she sinks to her knees before her lord.


End file.
